


The Chemical Properties of Tiger Blood

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are straying from the point, John,” said Sherlock. “What do you know about Charlie Sheen?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chemical Properties of Tiger Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=32965975#t32965975) on the kink meme, but not quite as cracktastic as I originally envisioned.

“John,” said Sherlock. “What is this?”

John looked up from his laptop to find Sherlock frowning intensely at his own screen. “What?” he asked. “Did Mrs. Hudson forward you the cat video again?”

“No,” Sherlock said. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I would value your opinion.”

“All right,” John said, getting up, “never mind that I’m over here and got thrown into a wall by a violent criminal yesterday while you stood by and hypothesized…”

Sherlock didn’t move his eyes from the screen. John trailed off, then shrugged resignedly and joined him at the kitchen table.

It wasn’t what John expected. To be fair, there was no knowing what to expect, but there were only a handful of things that confused Sherlock Holmes, and for him to be confused enough to ask John, John could only imagine that what he was about to see would be something along the lines of someone having sex with a blow-up Charles Dickens wearing solar system pajamas.

He wasn’t actually that far off.

Sherlock clicked up the sound, and the not-so-very-mellow tones of Charlie Sheen filled the room. “…your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body.”

“Ah,” John said.

Sherlock hit pause and gestured at the screen helplessly. “Who is this? And why is Mycroft sending me links to his appearances?”

John blinked. “You read Mycroft’s e-mails?”

“The accompanying text read, ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’” Sherlock recited in his driest tone.

John was still stuck on one crucial detail. “Yes, but, you read Mycroft’s e-mails?”

“That is not the point,” said Sherlock brusquely. “My brother rarely ever laughs—I believe him to have a yearly quota—and when he does it is almost without fail as a result of some insipid remark that assistant of his makes.”

“Yes, what is her name?”

“You are straying from the point, John,” said Sherlock, and finally turned to meet his eyes. “What do you know about Charlie Sheen?”

John shrugged. “Dad’s Martin Sheen, _Platoon_ , _Wall Street_ , same as everybody.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and was clearly about to reply with something in the vein of _I am not everybody_ , when there was the sound of feet on the stairs and Lestrade burst in.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said. “I was wrong about the Dupuis murder. It was poison after all and now Molly insists on you coming down to look at the body before we do anything else.”

Sherlock let out a sound—something, in John’s opinion, perilously close to a contented sigh—and shot out of his chair. “So the girl does have something between her ears after all.”

“That’s not very fair,” Lestrade began, but Sherlock already had his coat on and was descending the stairs. Instead, Lestrade exchanged an aggrieved look with John, exhaled sharply, and turned to follow him.

John stayed put. It really had hurt quite a bit getting out of bed that morning, and he was not particularly in the mood for the soft-eyed looks Molly was so fond of sending Sherlock. John shook his head, muttered, “Poor girl,” and lowered himself into Sherlock’s vacated chair.

Charlie Sheen was still staring, crazy-eyed, out at John from where Sherlock had left him paused. John hit play and sat back to watch. He was still there when Sherlock returned two hours later, taking notes in an opened Word document.

“Oh good, there you are,” said John to Sherlock, who was leaning in the doorway. He had not even bothered to remove his coat. “I think I’ve solved it.”

Now Sherlock moved, throwing his coat off onto the floor and circling the table and resting against it, just beside the computer. “Solved what?”

John cracked his knuckles in preparation. “Are you ready? I am going to read you some statements.”

He could have sworn that a smile flitted across Sherlock’s face before he again schooled it into his usual impassive stare. “Very well.”

John turned to his notes. “‘I probably took more than anybody could survive.’ ‘I closed my eyes and made it so with the power of my mind.’ ‘They picked a fight with a warlock.’ ‘Adonis DNA.’ ‘Tiger blood.’ ‘Droopy-eyed armless children.’” He paused. “What do you think?”

“I think that Anderson would have a field day with the man who said those things.” Sherlock smirked sideways. “Sergeant Donovan, on the other hand, might well find herself inexplicably attracted.”

“Want to know what I think?” said John.

“I imagine you’re about to tell me.”

“I think that Lestrade knew something and that’s why he staged a drugs bust. I think he knew he wouldn’t find anything but that it would still mean something. I think he and your brother know something I don’t know.”

“Entirely possible,” said Sherlock.

“When you went off…whatever it was, did you make it so with the power of your mind?”

Sherlock peered at John. John felt himself turning a little red under the scrutiny. “You’re teasing me,” said Sherlock.

“I’m not,” protested John. “As tempting as it would be.”

Sherlock settled fully on the table, and sighed. “What do I think? I think that you and Mycroft are getting far too much enjoyment out of a connection that is tenuous at best. And I do not,” he added sharply, “have Adonis DNA. If you had met my father you would understand.”

“So I take it that’s a no to tiger blood as well?” He paused. “May have been teasing just then.”

“Astonishing,” said Sherlock, as if nothing had ever surprised him in his life.

“Well, right then. Now we know why Mycroft sent it,” said John. “Nothing like a sibling’s sense of humor.”

Sherlock made no move to get up. Instead he crossed his arms and fixed his gaze at a point just above John’s left shoulder. He said, rapidly and evenly, “When I went off it, as you so euphemistically put it, it was at the behest of Mycroft and in a facility catering mostly to washed-up MI6 agents. The power of my mind had very little to do with it, and I have a very powerful mind.”

Not for the first time, John fought the urge to take Sherlock’s hands in his. He compromised by crossing his own arms to mirror Sherlock’s and they sat there in silence for a bit, until John cleared his throat. “There’s, uh, more.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his posture did relax somewhat. “Let’s have it, then,” he said, clearly ready to be bored.

John cleared his throat again, and read, “‘You can’t process me with a normal brain.’ ‘I have one speed. I have one gear: go.’ ‘I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart.’ ‘I expose people to magic. I expose them to something they’re never otherwise going to see in their boring, normal lives.’” John, paused, then shut the computer. “That’s all.” He started to get up.

Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He leaned in. “It’s not magic. It’s a science.”

“Oh,” said John. “Well, yes, of course I know that.”

Sherlock didn’t let go. “I am flattered by the associations your mind has made between these statements, taken completely out of context, and our life together.”

“Yes,” said John. It was all he could think to say.

Sherlock removed his hand. “Congratulations.”

John blinked. “On what?”

“On solving the case. Mycroft will be thrilled.”

John shook his head. “Some case. More like a game.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “An ongoing game, yes, but I think with you on my side surely I must be winning.”


End file.
